


Love or Money

by signifying_nothing



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: M/M, brief mentions of violence, gang au? kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6098638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signifying_nothing/pseuds/signifying_nothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>jimin gets paid four hundred bucks a week to tell the boss when he sees the cops. but getting paid six hundred bucks every two weeks to lift shit is better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love or Money

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted an excuse to write about the collateral damage of gang activity.

“I will pay you four hundred bucks a week to tell me when you see the cops. All you gotta do is stand there, kid, it's easy.”

Four hundred bucks a week to send a few text messages. Four hundred bucks a week that could pay for food, clothes, heat and hot water. Four hundred bucks a week he'd be earning by letting himself get branded into a gang he'd always promised his mother (God rest her soul) he'd never, ever join.

He said he'd never join, but four hundred bucks a week, tax-free. He had mouths to feed now, two small girls he'd carried in from the streets but now they were starving in his shitty low-rent apartment. Four hundred a week paid for haircuts and toothpaste and shoes that EBT wouldn't pay for.

Four hundred a week was the price paid for Jimin's innocence, raked away by the nine millimeter piece they put in his hand, and the tattoo they carved into his upper shoulder. Sixteen hundred dollars a month was all it took for Jimin to close his eyes and text when he saw the cops for the four hours he wandered the block, sometimes sitting inside a diner or the convenience store when the weather got to be too shit to sit on the curb. He was sitting inside now, holding a mug of cheap coffee in his cold hands and watching the road. He was always watching the road for white-and-black, flash of blue or red. His shift was almost over, his replacement would be there soon, and he could go up to the counter and get bread and drinks for his two little girls, waiting for him at home.

That was the other thing. His girls would be okay at home. The low-income buildings were caged in with chicken wire and the drug dealers did most of their business on the first few floors. They'd feel him down when he came in, check his piece and his ID, they'd make sure they knew who he was and they'd let him upstairs to his girls. They made sure no one got up to above the fifth floor. No one but the residents. And people could say what they wanted about the gangbangers and the dealers, they could say what they wanted but they kept Jimin and his girls safe and fed and housed. What more could he want than that?

He saw his replacement and got up to get his things, passed the cell phone into his hand as the two of them met in the doorway, nodded politely but said nothing else. He walked the busy street down to the high rise, offered out his bags and his gun when he was told to. Once he was okayed, he headed to the elevator; one of the guys operated it, took him up to the eighth floor and let him off with a nod of his head. He walked to his apartment door, unsurprised to find the door open, and the older of his girls running for him as fast as her little legs could carry her, babbling about her sister, how the older brother had come in when she started crying.

Jimin smiled a little, picked her up and kissed her head, heading in and closing the door.

He wasn't surprised to see Namjoon sitting on the couch, mostly asleep with the baby on his chest. He was only gone for four hours at a time, but sometimes the girls got impatient, hungry or lonely and Namjoon would usually come in to take care of them. They always let him in.

“Namjoon,” Jimin said, putting the bag on the counter, reaching to shake his shoulder. “Namjoon.”

“Hm,” he asked, not opening his eyes, the little girl asleep on his chest shifting to press her head further against his neck, her thumb sucked into her mouth. “What.”

“Don't you have somewhere to be?”

“You know I don't,” Namjoon replied, and Jimin smiled, bent to kiss his little girls head and Namjoon's cheek. They weren't together—they weren't together the way Jeongguk and Taehyung were together, but no one had a problem with them. None of them could afford to have a problem with one another. Love was something you took where you could find it, from anyone who was willing to give it to you.

“Well, get up, I brought stuff for dinner. I guess I'll feed you.”

“How sweet,” Namjoon grunted, sitting up carefully, still cradling Hyemi to his chest. “And thoughtful. Not like I've been here watching your kids for four hours.”

“You know I appreciate that,” Jimin replied, and Namjoon hummed, reached to pull Jimin down by his soft, dark hair and kiss him.

“You can show me how much, later.”

~

Jimin left the girls in the apartment as he went across the hall with Namjoon. He kissed them goodnight and tucked them in, tickled their full bellies and promised they'd go out to the park the next day before he let Namjoon lead him across the hall and into his apartment. He let the door close behind them and pushed against Namjoon, climbing his taller body to kiss him properly, to tangle fingers in his hair and allow himself to be carried to the bed on the far side of the room. Namjoon had a studio, a small place, but his bed was big and the mattress pad kept the springs from digging into Jimin's back as he was dropped to it. The two of them ripped away their clothes, panting, clawing, Jimin could have been a prostitute for the gang leaders but he preferred to keep his sex local, right here in the building. He preferred to keep his sex with Namjoon, the tall body between his thighs, the girth of his cock, the fat softness of his lips leaving bites and kiss marks everywhere they could reach as Jimin rode against him and panted out his name, clutching to his shoulders.

“Ah, ah, yes, right there, _Namjoon--_ ”

Jimin's cry was swallowed down into Namjoon's lungs, the smell of sweat and cum filthy on his skin as Namjoon's hips pumped and stuttered. Namjoon's face in his neck made him moan softly into his hair and for a minute Jimin could forget that he got paid five hundred dollars a week (now) to tell his boss if the cops were coming. He could pretend Namjoon didn't know, Namjoon and his job, Namjoon and his legitimate life that Jimin would never have.

“Jimin,” Namjoon panted, fucking down into him until it hurt to press their lips together, until Jimin's body was trembling and his ribcage was jumping up and down. “Jimin. Fuck.”

~

Jimin didn't like the violence.

It was inherent in his work but he still didn't like it, didn't like standing guard and listening to a guy get the shit kicked out of him, didn't like listening to bones cracking or a grown man sobbing in pain. It made him sick to his stomach, but when it was over he found more money in his hands (a bonus, for being so good at his job) and he'd think about getting Hyemi and Jiyoon new coats or new bedsheets and he'd... He'd deal with it.

Even if he hated it.

Hoseok seemed to enjoy it. His manic eyes, the bat in his hands, wielded with terrifying efficiency. He had orders not to kill the guy but he'd come as close as he could, laughing as he slung an arm over Jimin's shoulder and lead him away, keeping his head straight forward. In some sick way, he was concerned about Jimin; he sometimes gave him little bags of hairbows or dollar-store trinkets, _for your cuties!_

“Don't look man,” he'd say when he was done with a job, wiping the blood off his own cheek and making sure Jimin couldn't get an eyeful. “You can't testify to what you don't see.”

Hoseok's handler usually came to pick him up—Kim Seokjin, who was a tall, broad-shouldered dude with a face so sweet Jimin almost couldn't believe it belonged to someone who wore spiked brass knuckles and fucked around with Jung Hoseok.

“Come on, babe,” he'd say from the drivers seat of the car. “Lets go. You don't want to miss the party tonight right? Jimin, are you coming?”

“Can't,” he'd say, and it wouldn't be a lie. “Jiyoon has a dance recital tonight.”

“That's cool. Do you need a ride home?”

“Nah, it's just a few blocks. Thanks, though.”

Jimin didn't like the violence, and he did his best to keep his girls away from it. He showered for too long, scrubbed his skin too pink and did his best not to think of the broken body on the tarmac, the bloody mouth he'd seen in the corner of his eye, the fingers stretched out towards a phone.

~

It didn't take a genius to know what a skinny, petite guy in ripped jeans and light flannel was in his building for. It didn't take a fucking rocket scientist to know what a pretty, moon-pale hooker was doing in his building but still somehow Jimin couldn't look down on him. He was doing his best, too, like Jimin. Just that his best involved spreading his legs for anyone who paid for it, involved smiling that dangerous little half-smile Jimin would have found so attractive if he hadn't thought the idea of sleeping with someone who slept with everyone absolutely vile.

The guy was pretty and small but Jimin had Namjoon, he didn't need a whore but apparently the guy down the hall did, because that was where the whore walked, his hips jerking with every slightly bowlegged step, his shoulders relaxed, his pale hair fried and frizzy about his face as the door opened and he was pulled inside.

Jimin knew a whore when he saw one, and he thought they were disgusting, but that didn't make listening to the sounds of abuse any easier. How loud did it have to be, to be heard from halfway down the hall? He turned up the volume on the TV, with Hyemi in his lap and Jiyoon on the floor beside him, watching Beauty and the Beast and eating popcorn.

And if his little girls heard the sound of someone shouting, if they heard the sounds of a body hitting a wall or a tub or the floor, the sound of crying, neither of them said anything. Jiyoon just tucked herself closer and Hyemi held on tighter to his shirt, until Namjoon came in with ingredients for dinner and a promise not to cook if Jimin would agree to cook instead.

~

“Jimin?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think... You'd ever want to move out? With me?”

“...Out of here?”

“Yeah.”

“...Maybe.”

~

The final push came when Jimin was walking down the hall with his girls and he saw Jeongguk and Taehyung in the hallway, crowded over a body. There was blood everywhere, blood and hair, and he swallowed, trying to walk for the apartment, trying to keep Hyemi's eyes turned into his neck and Jiyoon's eyes covered with his hands. He made it to the door, fumbling with his keys when Namjoon came out of his apartment and dragged the three of them inside of it, closing the door.

“Jimin, fuck,” Namjoon whispered, kissing Jimin's lips, Hyemi's face, lifting Jiyoon up into his arms. “Shit. Come on, come over here, get away from the door.”

“What happened,” he asked, but Namjoon was checking him over, for bruises or bullet wounds, who knew. Jimin felt the wad of cash in his pocket and the tattoo on his shoulder burned. He knew what happened. He knew, without even having to be told.

“The cops are on their way here,” Namjoon said, smoothing back Jimin's hair. “They're on their way here and we gotta fuckin' get out of here, do you understand me? We can't _stay_ here.”

“But the girls--”

“Will be fine, Jimin, we gotta go, we gotta go now.”

“Th—the elevator--”

“We'll take the stairs.”

Jimin took a few minutes to gather the girls things. Clothes, toys, anything he could fit into his duffle bags. Everything he owned could be replaced, but the girls needed their things. They were heading for the stairs when a gunshot rang out and Jiyoon screamed, followed by Hyemi crying.

“Come on,” Namjoon said, and Jimin followed him, noting that the body was gone, that Jeongguk and Taehyung were gone, and there were bloody handprints on the wall. Jimin hoped that blood didn't belong to either of his friends.

At the bottom of the stairs laid that whore Jimin had seen around lately. Unconscious, or maybe dead, with one arm being crushed between the door and it's frame, like he'd been holding it open. There was blood under his body, dark red on the cement. “Don't look, baby, don't look,” he said, holding Hyemi to his chest and stepping over the body, following Namjoon out into the back street.

He was careful not to let the door slam, watched the fingers twitch as he let it rest against the broken forearm. The whore was alive, and Jimin's conscience was clear.

~

Six hundred bucks every two weeks was what Jimin earned working in a warehouse for eight hours a day. He had less time with his girls, but Namjoon was there to watch them, and even if the apartment was small, and he had to be quiet when he and Namjoon drew into one another, it was better. No one asked about his tattoo. No one asked except for a cop, who wanted to know if he'd seen anything that afternoon.

“There was a hooker at the bottom of the stairs,” Jimin said. “He was bleeding. I don't know if he was dead or not. Skinny, pale. Bowlegged.”

“Thank you very much for your help, Mister Park,” he'd said, although Jimin knew he hadn't told him what he wanted to hear. He hadn't said anything, but Namjoon held him anyway, kissed his hair and rocked him back and forth once the girls were asleep in their bedroom, tucked into their soft sheets with their nightlight on and their toys in the bed with them.

“It's gonna be okay,” Namjoon promised, kissing Jimin's shoulder. “We're okay.”

Twelve hundred bucks a month paid for life with Namjoon in a new city. Twelve hundred bucks a month paid for a cell phone and a single trip back to the city to find Taehyung and Jeongguk and the whore that now slept between them. Phone numbers exchanged, an argument had, Jimin wouldn't be sorry for being disgusted but Taehyung wouldn't apologize for saving the whore's life and keeping him with them, like Jimin had saved and kept his daughters.

“Thanks for not slamming that door on me,” he said, and Jimin took a breath and nodded tightly. He was just trying to live and Jimin couldn't blame him, not really. Not when three thousand bucks a month was what the whore used to make selling himself like meat, for money that went to medicine and good food. Jimin would never be okay with it, but he couldn't speak out against it.

Just like he couldn't speak out against Jung Hoseok, who met him downstairs with wild eyes, ready to pounce but what came wasn't a blow but a hug, panting, hands smoothing his hair, _You're okay,_ he'd said. _Oh thank fuck. Thank fuck, Jimin. Here. Take this. S'the least I can do. Now get out of here. Now._ Jimin knew they'd be looking for him for at least a little bit longer; it was stupid to come back to the apartments but he'd needed to see Taehyung and behind Hoseok he could see Seokjin, smiling a secret little smile as he nodded and Jimin headed for his rental car with an awkward wave. The roll of bills in his pocket felt like a lead weight.

Jimin left the old city behind for a new one, where his girls slept in peace and there were no sounds of violence from the apartments around them. He worked in a new city where Namjoon's work meant he could stay at home while Jimin went to the warehouse, where he could quietly save money for a cover-up tattoo and the artist didn't have anything nasty to say; just charged him half and told him to keep the rest of his money, bumping their firsts together.

Jimin could see the tattoo on his forearm and if it looked familiar, he didn't say anything about it.

~

“Daddy,” Jiyoon said, smiling up at Jimin and reaching up with her skinny arms. Jimin scooped her up and kissed all over her face, did the same to Hyemi when she ran to the door. His arms were strong now; with one girl in each arm he walked inside and waved to Namjoon—to Jeongguk and Taehyung, in the kitchen helping with dinner, to the whore that slept between them who was putting out plates.

“Is Hoseok coming?”

“He said he'd be here,” Taehyung piped up, and Jimin smiled. Two years on and the seven of them were getting together for dinner. It was Namjoon's idea. _You miss them,_ he'd said. _There's nothing wrong with getting together with your friends, Jimin._

_But it's—_

_No buts. Call them._

So here they were. With the high-school drop outs in the kitchen and the whore in the living room, taking Hyemi and speaking hushed Korean when she started to whimper and fuss, cooing into her hair and bouncing her on his hip as Jimin sang with Jiyoon and made sure no one made too much of a mess until Hoseok and Seokjin came in. Hoseok's eyes were still wild, but bright and happy and fierce; he pulled Jimin into a hug so tight it cracked his back, did the same for Taehyung and Jeongguk. He looked Namjoon up and down before doing the same to him, because why not, and Seokjin laughed, leaning back into the wall and smiling, waving over the whore to give him a one-armed hug.

Six hundred bucks every two weeks didn't pay for much, but it paid for Jimin to have a life with Namjoon, with his friends; it paid for Jimin to provide for his girls and see the people he'd been forced to leave behind.

It paid for warm good-bye hugs and promises to see one another soon, it paid for Namjoon's hand caught in Jimin's when they leaned into one another and waved. It paid for the girls saying goodbye in horribly accented Korean, waving their arms and saying goodbye to _Taehyung oppa_ and _Jeongguk oppa_ and _Sugar oppa_ and _Why am I getting called unnie? Because Seokjinnie unnie is pretty!_ It paid for Jimin's quiet happiness, his life with his lover and his girls and his friends.

The future was a little brighter at six hundred bucks every two weeks. It was better than it'd ever looked before.

 


End file.
